


kissing game

by capra



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Crack?, Fluff, Gen, I promise, M/M, Not Beta Read, absurdity, and then suddenly at the end, but still very out of his depth for most of this fic, he's in here, knife shoes appreciation society, ksas, shoma being far less helpless than usually portrayed, the ship will finally show up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 04:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17036465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capra/pseuds/capra
Summary: Shoma’s birthday celebration, if it can be called that, starts nearly half a year before his actual birthday. He didn’t ask for any of it, but ends up not minding what he gets. Mostly.Or:Kanako and Mao, as adoptive big sisters are wont to do, begin a game to harmlessly embarrass Shoma in anticipation of his 21st birthday. He is thoroughly, but harmlessly, embarrassed, flustered, and loved, and above all, absolutely can’t ignore the fact that people think of him and love him. (Though, thankfully, no one shoves that part in his face.)Or:How many skaters would you like to watch giving Shoma kisses? Lots? This is the fic for you.





	kissing game

**Author's Note:**

> honestly this was supposed to be a short fluffy yuzusho for Shoma's birthday and it turned into...this. i promise you i was just as surprised as shoma by some of the directions this thing took (wtf, noisy muses, wait your turns), but i hope you at least find it enjoyable, and a suitable celebration of the little titanium boy with a dazed expression and big heart. everyone loves shoma, and who can blame them.
> 
> This story is based on a narrow range of cherrypicked personality qualities culled from my personal and very biased interpretation of the publically available personas of real human beings who are, I am quite certain, not similar at all to how they're depicted here.
> 
> In short, it's complete fiction.

*

“Happy birthday,” Shoma hears, very loud and very close behind him, and he turns quickly on one blade, because it’s always best to face a threat as squarely as you can, but he’s nowhere near fast enough, and he’s also outnumbered. Running from Kanako’s voice only drove him straight into Mao’s arms, and he’s caught solidly between the pair of them. He sags in their grasp, because once he’s already caught then there’s no point in struggling, and sighs.

“My birthday isn’t for  _ months _ ,” he points out, and they laugh, and Kanako ruffles his hair, and oh, he realizes, today is going to be one of those days. The ones where he’s lost before he even started, because someone’s made a Scheme and he wasn’t invited.

Kanako and Mao both crouch down, bending their knees to approximate his height, and he’d be offended if he wasn’t so used to it. “But we won’t see you until after it’s passed, so we’re telling you early, rather than be late,” Mao explains, ever patient.

“Well, thank you?” Shoma asks. “Will you let go now?”

“Almost,” Mao laughs, and lays a huge, gross smooch on his cheek. “Birthday kiss for the birthday boy,” she announces proudly.

“Blaugh,” Shoma remarks. “That was— _ augh _ ? _ ” _

Kanako pulls back from his other cheek, and pokes the big wet spot she’s left. “ _ Raspberry _ kiss for the birthday boy,” she announces, and grins at him. It’s a challenge, and he knows he won’t win. But he also knows these women as well as the big sisters he doesn’t actually have, and he can’t just  _ let  _ them win.

Shoma squirms out of their loosened grasp and kicks off the ice, zipping away as fast as he can. They shriek, affronted, and chase him, and it all ends in a giggling tug of war with Nobu and Mura somehow ending up in the middle. He still doesn’t like birthday kisses, and birthday raspberries even less, but he appreciates the love.

*

At Skate Canada, Shoma begins to suspect that knowledge of Kanako and Mao’s game has spread far further than he realized. Cha Junhwan skids up to him in the mens’ first practice, loops both arms around his neck, and hangs off of him with a shit-eating grin.

“It’s your birthday soon,” he announces. Shoma tips his head to the side.

“Is  _ months _ still.” He enunciates the English carefully, scanning the rink for help. Involving Nam or Keegan would make this  _ worse _ , and aside from Kazuki, he doesn’t know any of the others well enough to get them involved in this.

Junhwan lets Shoma go, choosing instead to skate little circles around him, watching Shoma with focused curiosity, and Shoma is reminded of the gala practice at PyeongChang. He had decided then to approach Junhwan’s handsiness in the same manner of patient exasperation that he does Yuzu’s, but it was easier when almost no one shared a language and he had Yuzu there to translate for him. Now, he’s in the non-English-speaking minority, and he doesn’t want to be  _ rude _ , because he quite likes Junhwan, but he’s  _ not _ interested in this game and he’d really rather Junhwan just not even try to play.

“ _ Do you need me to help translate?” _ The smooth Japanese words shock Shoma out of his reverie. Junhwan grins over Shoma’s head, shooting off quick, brash English. Shoma turns, trying to figure out which Westerner here speaks both English and Japanese that well – Misha Ge isn’t here, but he can’t think of anyone else.

It’s Jason Brown, and Shoma’s mouth hangs open just a bit. Jason grins, clearly  _ delighted _ with himself for surprising Shoma, and he bends forward to hug Shoma around the shoulders – brief, light, warm, just how Shoma prefers to be hugged – even as he’s giddily explaining.

“ _ I’ve been practicing, and when I realized we’d be at the same assignment, I decided I wanted to surprise you! Yuzu’s been helping,” _ he says. Shoma nods, wide-eyed, and answers in Japanese. It feels blissfully comfortable.

“ _ I had no idea you had gotten so good. Your accent, still, but you are so fast and smooth. I didn’t even know you were working on it so much.” _

“ _ It helps having a training mate who takes everything as a challenge,” _ Jason laughs.

“Hello? English,” Junhwan chides, but he doesn’t sound stressed at all. Shoma begins to realize they planned this, and Junhwan’s clinginess makes more sense.

“You...distract me, so Jason sneak up?” he asks Junhwan, and this time he’s rewarded with dual sunny grins.

“Yep! Happy birthday,” Junhwan tells him, accompanying the wish with both hands held up in heart fingers.

“Good play,” Shoma congratulates them, and he means it. If all the pranks his fellow skaters decided to play on him were like  _ this _ , he’d enjoy them all.

Junhwan blows Shoma a kiss and skates off. Jason stays close. They stroke together for a while, and when Jason speaks again it’s more quietly, with a little smile and a little shyness.

“ _ Junhwan didn’t think the kissing prank was a good idea, so he came up with his own,” _ Jason says, and Shoma freezes. But Jason squeezes his hand, reading his discomfort, and continues explaining.

“ _ Don’t worry, he’s done. That was all he decided he’d do.” _

Shoma nods, watching Jason’s eyes. Why is Jason explaining this, instead of Junhwan?

“ _ But you know, I kind of do,” _ Jason continues.  _ “But not as a prank. _ ”

Shoma looks at him, wide-eyed, but Jason’s already turned and is skating away, waving. His departure leaves the knowledge of that little confession with Shoma, a private secret for just he and Jason to share.

Feeling stunned, Shoma shakes his head, rakes his bangs back, tries to focus on practice. A few splats, and a few starfishes later, his adrenaline is flowing in much more familiar patterns, and he feels like he’s able to think a bit more clearly. Did Jason tell him that just to throw him off, as a competitor? No. Shoma doesn’t know Jason that well, but he does know that’s just not the kind of person Jason is. If it was, Yuzu wouldn’t have taught Jason enough Japanese to talk to Shoma.

Hm.

He puts the conversation aside. Jason didn’t seem to want or expect an answer – if that even counted as a confession. Did he just mean he thinks Shoma is cute? Surely Yuzu had told Jason he didn’t have a chance with Shoma...Unless Jason hadn’t told Yuzu his reasons for wanting to learn more Japanese?

Dammit. Shoma resolves to  _ really _ be cross with Kanako, next time they talk. It seems like the safest bet.

*

Skate Canada has one more surprise in store for Shoma, but this one waits until the very end of the gala. In the hallway toward the dressing room, as everyone is trudging along with giddy hearts and exhausted limbs, Kazuki waits for Shoma to leave the ice. Kazuki’s wearing his street clothes and sneakers, while Shoma’s still in his skates, and that puts them on eye level with each other.

It’s only a small change in perspective, to look straight across at his junior instead of up at him, but it catches and holds Shoma’s attention as Kazuki congratulates him on his program skates, and on his win, and on his exhibition. Kazuki has a lot to say, and Shoma is really fond of him, but also  _ really _ tired, and so when Kazuki’s speech finally slows down to a pause, waiting for Shoma’s response, Shoma is chagrined to realize he has no idea what Kazuki’s just asked him. He stops walking, wiping one palm over his face, and sighs.

“I’m sorry, I’m so tired,” he apologizes, feeling awful. “I zoned out. What did you ask?”

Kazuki ducks his chin, looking down at the floor, and mumbles something. Shoma feels even  _ worse _ . Kazuki clearly looks up to him – height notwithstanding – and the last thing Shoma wants is to make him feel unimportant, or uninteresting.

“Ask me again, I promise I’m listening completely now,” he says, and he turns to face Kazuki squarely. The rest of the skaters are all already in the locker room, and their cheerful, noisy chatter rattles down the hall and over Shoma’s head.

In front of him, Kazuki exhales. Squares his shoulders, looks up, and meets Shoma’s gaze levelly.

“Happy birthday,” he says, and darts in close. His lips press against Shoma’s, brief, soft, and then they’re gone again. Kazuki’s face is fully scarlet, and he looks stunned, as if even he can’t quite believe he did that. Shoma knows he’s blushing, too, but that barely seems important to him.

“Thank you, Kazuki,” he says, blinking, trying to figure out what else to say. Distantly, he regrets never having played dating sim games, because he has no idea how to let Kazuki down gently. But Kazuki himself seems willing to do the work for him.

“Think of it as a kiss for luck,” he says, and now he is beginning to stammer. “I know you don’t feel that-- that way.  _ About me _ ,” Kazuki hastens to add, waving his hands a bit frantically. Shoma does his best to sweep away Kazuki’s worries with a little wave of his own hands.

“I understand,” he says, and he really does. Shoma knows what Kazuki is stepping around, the open secret about him that everyone on Team Japan knows and fiercely protects. It’s touching, Shoma thinks, that Kazuki has gifted Shoma with such straightforward honesty about his feelings, even though he knows he’s got no chance. A solidarity of sorts, and a deep trust as well.

“B-but it’s okay,” Kazuki continues, having gotten a little bit of control over his blush. “I will be cheering for you at the Final.”

“We don’t even know if I’ve made it there yet,” Shoma says dumbly. Kazuki blinks and  _ laughs,  _ and Shoma has never been happier to be laughed at in his life.

“I know you will,” Kazuki says. “You’re the best.”

*

After Skate Canada, Shoma spends as much time as he can either at home or at the rink, even more than usual. Even spending time around Team Japan is clearly a dangerous prospect – or maybe it’s just dangerous right now, while the GPF or his own impending birthday or a mass case of food poisoning have people going insane, kissing him and confessing to him and pranking him left right and center.

It’s exhausting, all this emotion being aimed at him, and he tells Itsuki as much. Itsuki knows when Shoma can handle being teased about something, and when Shoma would prefer to be left alone with his confused, fragile feelings. He’s always the best person to talk to when Shoma has a lot on his mind, and he’ll know just what to say.

Itsuki writes up a list of pros and cons for accepting each of the confessions that Shoma has received, and calculates a comparative table of ‘stat increases’ that Shoma could gain by leveling up his ‘social links’ with either Kazuki or Jason. Shoma throws a book at him.

*

Shoma’s and Keiji’s paths don’t cross much these days, and when they do, there’s far too little time for catching up and relaxing together. So when Keiji next sees Shoma, he wastes no time. Keiji grabs Shoma’s head in both his hands, tips it down, and kisses the crown of his head. Shoma thinks,  _ ugh, my hair is so gross from practice,  _ but Keiji just holds him at arm’s length, smiles with a frankly confusing amount of pride, given that all Shoma has done is stand here, so what’s so impressive about that? and pulls Shoma in for a big, fierce hug.

“Here’s to twenty-one,” he says, before his coach drags him away. “We’ll talk on LINE, okay?”

“Okay,” Shoma says, and is surprised by how  _ not _ embarrassing that whole thing was. Keiji just has that sort of energy to him, the kind that puts Shoma at ease no matter what strange situation they might find themselves in. Even the reminder of the kiss prank project – which is apparently still ongoing – doesn’t upset him, because Keiji’s just  _ that  _ soothing of a person to be around. He smiles, scratches at his hair, and runs to catch up with Mihoko, who’s looking patiently exasperated with the delay.

*

When Stephane Lambiel asks for your attention, generally, the wise route is to  _ give it _ , and to give it promptly, because as the whole community teases him these days, he’s a coach now, so he’s always right. Shoma doesn’t join in on the teasing, but he  _ does _ have a healthy sense of self preservation, and with skaters of a certain personality type – like Stephane, Johnny Weir, Yuzu, and some others, he’s found it’s easier to cooperate with their silliness right from the start than be dragged into it later anyway. Participating on his own initiative seems to have more dignity.

But there’s no dignity to be found here.

“You should have  _ lots _ of fun, after all, every year is the only year you turn that year, right?” Stephane has draped himself over Shoma’s shoulder and is snuggling him. Really, there’s no other word for it – cheek to cheek, nuzzling in what Shoma can only guess is supposed to be a familiar, friendly, perhaps familial, manner.

How does one say _I’m not the Yuzuru type of Japanese person, please let go of me I am uncomfortable?_ Shoma thinks frantically. _English, English!_ Shoma hopes, prays, that someone hears him thinking **_help_** as loudly as he can.

“ _ Coach! _ ” The voice is not immediately familiar to Shoma, but when Stephane lets him go and Shoma can turn around, the voice and its owner’s name click promptly to mind. Shoma is deeply grateful to his brain for remembering that much, even while every other bit of English has fled.

“Deniss,” he says, trying to sound as grateful as he truly feels.

“Deniss!” Stephane says, and pushes off of Shoma, arms wide, aiming for his student.

“Nope,” Deniss laughs, ducking out of Stephane’s path, and holds out a small bakery box with a cellophane window in the lid. Shoma peers in – it’s a little cake, with “21” written out in Japanese numerals.

“I couldn’t quite get your name to look right in icing,” Deniss says, sounding deeply apologetic. “I didn’t want to leave it messy, so I went with numbers. I know it’s early, but, I hope you like it.” Shoma can’t catch all of his words, or even most of them, but his meaning is unmistakeable.

Then Deniss leans in even closer, his mop of hair falling into his eyes, and he’s blushing a little across the bridge of his nose. It’s endearing. He speaks with careful enunciation, clearly only wanting to have to say this once. “They told me to try to kiss you, but I thought you would like cake more. And I’m better at baking than pranks.”

“ _ Thank you _ ,” Shoma says, taking the cake and holding it carefully in both his hands, feeling warmth bloom in his chest until his whole body feels like helium. Relief sweeps through him until his hands shake. “Do you...want to share?” Deniss  _ beams _ , and Shoma feels his own cheeks go warm to match Deniss’s.

Cake is much better than kisses, and  _ much _ less confusing than confessions. But if anyone asks later, Shoma’s going to tell them that Deniss played along, so he doesn’t get in trouble.

*

Shoma gets a request on LINE from a contact number he doesn’t recognize, and deletes it, because people are tiring enough when they definitely aren’t stalkers. The request comes in again the next day, and the next, and after three days of this, he gets a message from Jason Brown, which tells him to please accept Zhenya’s request? He’s hurting her feelings.

Shoma thinks it would have made more sense if Jason had warned him  _ ahead _ of time, but he accepts the contact invitation. Zhenya’s user picture is a photo of her Luna plush, and Shoma smiles, realizing he really should have been able to figure it out on his own if he’d been paying closer attention.

The next morning, he wakes up to a chain of thirty-seven LINE messages from Zhenya. Most of them are stickers, absurd cartoon illustrations of lips, kisses, hearts, and for some reason a white bunny making heart eyes at a round brown bear? At the end of the daunting chain are two lines of actual text, carefully typed in English. He plugs them into Google Translate, because he’s just woken up, and this is a  _ lot _ .

_ Happy birthday, Shoma-kun! Love from Zhenya. I will not see you in person on time, so here are my kisses!! Have a happy birthday! _

Shoma frowns. His birthday is still more than two weeks away. Between then and now, the GPF looms. Obviously, its approach meant all sorts of increased pressures – to represent Japan in Yuzuru’s absence, to fulfill his own expectations and those of his supporters, to make his coaches and his team and family proud.

But  _ ‘in person’  _ and  _ ‘on time’ _ ?

Shoma begins to imagine what  _ else _ will be waiting for him in Vancouver, and shudders.

*

The Final goes well. Mostly.

*

“ _ Happy birthday _ ,” coos Satoko, when they first cross paths at the GPF, and Shoma sighs and drags his hand over his face with a sigh.

“Just kiss me already and get it over with,” he grumbles. Satoko squawks, and Shoma looks up, wide eyed and flushed, and the next couple minutes are a flustered disaster on both their parts.

“I thought you were in on it too,” he explains, once they’ve both calmed down. “Kana and Mao started it, and now it seems like  _ everyone _ is doing it. Or something weird, at least. Rika and Kao-chan snuck up on me yesterday morning and gave me, um, thimbles? Little metal cups. They said they were kisses, but I think it’s an English pun, so...”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Satoko says, and exhales with a soft chuckle. “I’ll explain that to you later. But yes, they did ask me, but I thought it wouldn’t be nice.”

“I think the  _ point _ is not being nice to me,” Shoma grumbles, but he’s smiling, partly from gratitude for Satoko, partly from realizing that Rika and Kaori had found a way to play along without making him uncomfortable. He really does have the best friends.

“Well, okay. Then I won’t be left out,” Satoko declares, and she shoves his shoulder with hers. “I can be just as mean to you as anyone else.” Shoma is apprehensive, because if Satoko really means  _ anyone _ , then she might be about to try to best  _ Kanako _ , and that’s a terrifying thought no matter how he looks at it.

But Satoko just leans in and places a delicate, sweet kiss on the apple of his cheek. Shoma blushes more deeply, but Satoko just smiles, and it’s a comfort to know with such certainty that she’s not laughing  _ at _ him, even though he’s gone scarlet. She wouldn’t. That’s not how their friendship works.

“Go get yourself an early birthday present,” she tells him, and heads into the ladies’ locker room. She’s got a competition to win, too.

*

Shoma wins himself a silver, not as good of a birthday present as he would have liked, but still nice. He enjoys standing the podium with Nathan and Junhwan, and he is embarrassed – but pleased – by the enthusiasm of the fans as they scream and cheer for him. During the victory lap, Nathan leans in close, putting his mouth close to Shoma’s ear, so Shoma can hear him over the screaming. Shoma’s terrified for one single, irrational, ice-blooded second – Nathan’s from the  _ States _ , and they’re  _ crazy _ – but he shouldn’t have worried.

“Happy birthday, man,” Nathan says, a smile in his voice if not quite in his eyes. He’s nervous, Shoma realizes, and beams back at him with gratitude.

“Thanks, Nathan,” he says, doing his best with the English consonants. It doesn’t work, but it makes Nathan’s smile reach his eyes, and that’s all Shoma wanted.

After the victory ceremony, Mihoko opens her arms for him and he totters into them gratefully. She kisses his forehead, and he blushes, feeling very young.

“Congratulations, Shoma,” she tells him, and pushes him back so she can look at him all over. Her hands on the back of his neck are the same soothing warmth they’ve always been, for almost as long as he can remember, and when she looks at him with such pride he feels ready to take on  _ anything _ .

“And happy early birthday,” she adds. “What a nice present you’ve won for yourself.”

“I guess so,” Shoma says, ducking his head, but the grin on his face doesn’t wilt a bit. “Thanks, coach.”

*

At Japan Nationals, Shoma is prepared. He’s ready. He’s taken a page from Yuzu’s book, and has been doing image training for weeks, just to prepare for this moment, this competition. He’s ready, he’s centered, and he’s coming to win.

Even though to do that, he’d have to beat  _ Takahashi Daisuke _ .

He’s decided ahead of time that he will limit his contact with all other competitors as much as possible before and during the event. He’s not Yuzu, or Javier. He can’t switch tracks that quickly, from friendship or idolatry to competition, and he doesn’t want his childhood admiration for Takahashi-senshu to inhibit his ability to perform to the extent of his own abilities. He’d be disappointed in himself. Takahashi-senshu would be disappointed in him, too, Shoma’s certain, so he is  _ firm _ in his resolve, obsessive in his practice, and unshakeably determined.

In the locker room, a bouquet of flowers stands in a beautiful glass vase. The tag reads “To Shoma-kun, good luck!” but it has no signature, and it’s printed, not handwritten. He wonders who allowed a fan to get all the way in this far, but the fan’s not present, and the flowers aren’t poisonous, probably, so he puts it out of his mind. He’s here to skate, and to win.

After it’s all over, after the final scores and the medals are through, and the three medalists are skating their victory lap, Dai bumps his shoulder against Shoma’s, and Shoma swallows hard to make his heart settle back down where it belongs, in his chest instead of his throat, and gives Dai his full attention.

“Yes?”

“Did you like your flowers?” Daisuke asks, and Shoma feels the color drain out of his face, and he knows he looks a bit bug-eyed but honestly  _ could anyone blame him? _

“Those—those were from you?” Shoma squeaks.

“Yes, did you like them? I felt invigorated to compete with you,” Dai says, and scrubs at his hair as if he’s the embarrassed one here, as if he’s the one utterly out of his depth. “I still have so far to go, I’m definitely not good enough yet! But it was a joy to face you and Sota and all the others.”

“Wh-why didn’t everyone else get bouquets too?” Shoma really doesn’t know why he’s asking this. It doesn’t matter, it’s absurd, this entire situation is absurd.  _ Accept it and move on _ , Shoma, but he can’t; he has to know.

“He told me everyone was doing something special for you for your birthday,” Dai says, “It’s belated, but I thought I’d play along, too.”

Shoma’s ears kind of go funny, like he’s hearing everything through an aquarium, or a tin can. They’ve finished their lap by now, and it’s time for photos, and Shoma just knows that his expression will be  _ particularly  _ vapid this time.

*

Shoma finds him, somehow. With no concrete clues to go on, no evidence, and honestly, not even any proof that he’s here to  _ find _ , except for what Daisuke said. “He.”

There’s only one idiot who gets talked about that way, and that idiot  _ is _ enough of an idiot that he’d be here, somewhere, in the thick of a hundred thousand fans who know his face better than they know their own, a third of whom will go from friendly to  _ rabid _ if they learn that he’s here in their midst.

Probably more than that, Shoma thinks, and his stomach sinks. Many of these are Daisuke’s fans, and some of them still might carry grudges. Shoma wishes that uncharitable thought weren’t so likely, weren’t so real. But it is, and worry twists his gut in knots.

But – in the end, he’s Shoma’s idiot. And so Shoma is able to find him. As soon as Shoma sets eyes on him, he’s laughing, that stupid braying loud thing that Shoma loves to hate, but hearing it right now makes Shoma’s hair stand on end. With a fistful of his t-shirt collar, Shoma hauls him unceremoniously into the first small, dark room he can find, behind the first door in the arena’s backstage hallway that didn’t open into a bathroom or a conference room.

The door thuds shut behind them, and Shoma sags against it, breathing heavily, rubbing his brow with both thumbs. As their eyes adjust, they find themselves able to see, mostly just by contour, by way of hundreds of twinkling, flickering LEDs.

“A server room,” Yuzuru says, bemused, stepping away from the massive bank of computers that’s blowing hot exhaust onto his cheek. “Shoma, if we knock anything over, they’ll have to come in here to reboot it.”

“Then we won’t,” Shoma grits out, opening his eyes. In the near-dark he can only see Yuzuru’s silhouette. He’s wearing a coat over a light jacket, and under that just a t-shirt and jeans. Shoma doesn’t remember if Yuzu’s wearing a walking cast right now – he didn’t look carefully enough when he found him, too eager just to get him somewhere private and safe.

“How are you— _ why _ are you--”

“Watching Nationals,” Yuzu says primly. Shoma rolls his eyes.

“Torturing yourself, you mean,” he grumbles.

“I’m home for Christmas!” Yuzu protests.

“Does this look like Sendai?”

“I had to come cheer on my favorite teammates,” Yuzu tries, wheedling.

“Yuzu, you can’t just--”

“--Are you not happy to see me?”

Shoma stops. Absent his flippantly unrufflable demeanor and bratty teasing, Yuzu sounds truly uncertain, truly worried that he’s made the wrong call.

“No, that’s-- of  _ course _ I am,” Shoma sighs.

“I made sure you didn’t know I was here until after.” Yuzu barrels on, justifications and explanations all lined up in well-prepared order. “I did not distract you, I did not mess up your skate.”

“Yuzu--”

“I want to congratulate you in person,” Yuzu says, “I knew you would have a skate worth congratulations, so I came.”

“ _ Yuzu. _ ” Shoma steps forward, boots shuffling in small steps so as not to trip over any unseen cables or power cords. Yuzu hears the movement, and steps forward as well, and they meet in the middle, hands finding each other, fingers lacing together tightly. With skates on, Shoma’s only maybe five or six centimeters shorter than Yuzu, and he can feel Yuzu’s breath on his cheeks without stretching.

“I am happy you came.” The rest is muffled in a kiss. Yuzu surges forward, wrapping Shoma up in his arms, and they rock back, until Shoma’s back and Yuzu’s palm thump against the door. They freeze, listening, but the hallway outside is silent.

“You could-- have just come-- to my hotel later, you know,” Shoma gasps. Forming smooth sentences is hard when Yuzu’s teeth and tongue are on his throat, when his lips close over Shoma’s earlobe and one hand cups as much of the broad, dense curve of Shoma’s ass as it can reach.

“Oh, okay, I will, thank you for the invitation.” Yuzu somehow manages to chirp and purr his words at the same time, and the seductive impishness of it, of  _ him _ , leaves Shoma fully ready, as always, to simultaneously smack him and devour him.

“ _ Yuzu _ ,” Shoma growls again, and this time he means business. Yuzu is a lot of things, but not an idiot, and he pauses to listen.

“They’re going to look for me, and I don’t want them to find you,” Shoma explains. He’s frustrated with himself for being so breathless, and so sensible. Wouldn’t it be so much better to push Yuzu to his knees  _ right here _ , right now?

“Ohh, you want to hide me?” Yuzu whines, but Shoma’s heard this one before, and it’s long since lost its power.

“I want to  _ keep you to myself _ tonight, and if they find out you’re here, I won’t get to do that,” Shoma says, enunciating carefully, holding his jaw tightly clenched. Yuzu’s tongue is tracing a path up the column of Shoma’s throat and it  _ almost _ breaks him, he almost whimpers and gives in – but no. Yuzu is a shit, and Shoma is the brains of this operation.

“Let go, come on, leggo,” he urges, smacking Yuzu’s hands lightly, until they release his ass and his waist, until Yuzu, drawing a shuddering breath, steps back. The air that rushes between them is a welcome insulation, but feels all the more frigid for that fact.

Shoma reaches forward, despite himself, and presses his palm flat to Yuzu’s chest. His heart is beating hard, urgent, and Shoma’s squeezes in sympathy.

“I have to go. I will text you when I am on my way,” Shoma promises, and his throat feels thick. He licks his lips. “You came all this way for me,” he whispers. “I will not keep you waiting long.”

“Ah, I told you, I just wanted to see the competition,” Yuzu chirps back. The bratty affectation is back, and Shoma exhales, pulling himself under control, too. He’s got to go out there and convince everyone that he’s only been missing for the last fifteen minutes because he was in the bathroom, or feeling unwell, or checking his boots, or something silly and innocuous like that.

Well, he needs to convince everyone except for Mihoko, who’s always been the best secret-keeper he could ask for. But it’s still going to be tough, even if she catches on and helps him, and Shoma’s suddenly not sure he’s up to the task. If he falters, what if the fans find out Yuzu’s here? What if they catch him, and turn his little impulsive vacation into yet another obligation, yet another practice of responsibility, when all he wanted was to sneak away with Shoma?

The pressure fills his ears, and sound starts to go funny again, as if the aquarium is back. The touch of Yuzu’s hands on his cheeks, cupping his face, covering his ears, snaps him out of it.

“Shoma,” Yuzu says, and his voice is steady and deep and everything Shoma needs right now to shut up his head. Shoma lurches forward and kisses Yuzu. It occurs to him, belatedly, that they hadn’t properly kissed yet – just that first rushed exclamation of relief, and then Yuzu trying to devour Shoma’s throat – and he opens his mouth to Yuzu’s tongue, breathing him in, clinging with one arm looped around Yuzu’s neck and the other around his waist. All the kisses he’s gotten lately, and he almost forgot to claim the most important one.

Yuzu sighs into his mouth, closes his lips around Shoma’s lower one and squeezes, tugs lightly, lets it go with a wet, soft pop. Shoma’s gut clenches, heat thundering down through him, pooling and roiling and he thinks, really thinks, about how long it’s been since he was able to kiss Yuzu with proper privacy, with proper forethought and space and nothing ahead of them but time. He thinks,  _ I guess I’m not leaving this room after all. _

But Yuzu breaks the kiss, taking his turn as the brains of the operation, and Shoma, reluctant, knowing Yuzu’s right but  _ so _ damn reluctant to concede, leans back against the door and shudders, breath shaking in his ribs as he puts cold space between them once more.

_ Just for now, _ he promises himself.

“Happy belated birthday,” Yuzu murmurs, licking his lips, popping them wetly against each other to make sure that Shoma can hear, if not see, the temptation he’s providing. The shamelessness of it snaps Shoma to attention. He  _ knew _ about the game!

Before Shoma can formulate his irritation, Yuzu laughs, and the flash of his teeth, illuminated in green and red by the scantly flickering LED lights around them, is a goofy, simple touchstone of normalcy. It’s what Shoma needs.

“Okay,” Shoma says, and he puts aside his frustration and his irritation with his charming, shameless, bratty idiot. He’ll scold Yuzu later. “Okay.”

Now Shoma smiles too, but it’s a grimace. “Wait for me to be far enough away before you go out, I don’t want to be the reason you get caught.

“Close your eyes. This is going to be bright.”

Squinting into the brightly lit hallway, Shoma slips out of the server closet and quickly closes the door behind him.

*

Shoma didn’t think to check the time when he parted ways with Yuzu, but he guesses that it took him about two hours to get from that point, through his obligations as a medalist, and back to his hotel. He had trusted that Yuzu would know whom to ask for the necessary info, and when he finally toddles into his room, he sees he was right. Yuzu’s passed out in his bed, properly under the covers, even wearing pajamas. At the foot of the bed is a neatly folded pile of Yuzu’s clothes.

Exhausted, Shoma strips down to his boxers and crawls in beside him, turning off the lights as he goes. Yuzu’s body is warm against his own, and even in the depths of sleep, responsive to Shoma’s arrival. Long practice lets Shoma tuck himself into the negative spaces between the various curves and angles of Yuzu’s body, snuggling in close. Yuzu’s long limbs melt against him, drape over his own.

As Yuzu relaxes, drifting back toward deeper slumber and dreams, Shoma feels him murmur incoherent fondnesses into Shoma’s hair. Shoma’s heart squeezes, almost too full to lay still. Shoma feels a tug in his gut, like a little message from the earlier hunger, the need they had had to put aside, deferred in the dark of the little closet flecked with flashing electronic stars.

Shoma promises himself that the first thing he will do in the morning is to kiss Yuzuru awake. That he will unleash onto Yuzu every tender, grateful, hungry emotion in his body.

Yuzu slumbers on. His breath is deep, steady. The tide of it against Shoma’s back, familiar as the rhythm of step sequences, of warm ups and cooldowns, lulls him to sleep in a matter of minutes.

  
*  
  


**Author's Note:**

> if you come find me on twitter or discord, you'll probably be disappointed by the fact that i'm actually not primarily a shoma stan
> 
> but on the other hand, i just wrote nearly 6k of fic about him in one sitting so maybe i'm more gone for this boy than previously thought.
> 
> also i recommend this thread, it is a good and was influential when i wrote this: https://twitter.com/skatestudy/status/1071337054414487552 
> 
> anyway, i'm capra, and thank you for reading.


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